


A Sticker Situation

by NotASpaceAlien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bullet Hole Stickers, Gen, James Bond - Freeform, M/M, The Bentley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:19:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's favorite angel and demon are innocently driving past a gas station when Crowley notices a giveaway that he absolutely must participate in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sticker Situation

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/126301297935/a-sticker-situation

Some swaths of religious believers maintain that there is occult influence in movies, an attempt to indoctrinate youths into immoral ways.  Few have ever thought about the reverse: movies having an influence on the occult.

_England, 1967_.  Crowley is currently doing 90 mph down a stretch of road where the speed limit is 45.  Aziraphale was in the passenger’s seat,* clutching the door handle and making an impressive effort not to comment on the way the car was swaying as they rounded each bend.  


* * *

*Originally he had been doing 120mph, so Aziraphale felt as though he had done enough good and had quit while he was ahead

* * *

“I’m telling you,” said Crowley.  “They’re clever buggers.  If you tell them they can’t do something, it makes them even more likely to do it.  They’ll have it done before the decade’s out.”

Aziraphale clutched his chest as they narrowly avoided hitting a tree.  “But I don’t- _-_ After what just happened with _Apollo,_ surely there’s going to be at least some delay-”

“Before 1970, mark my words.  Personally I think the Americans will be the ones to do it.  Everyone’s already got bits of junk floating around the moon-”

The tires squealed fiercely, and Aziraphale nearly flew into the dashboard as they screeched to a halt.  “Crowley?!” said the angel, “Goodness, what-”

Crowley was looking at the petrol station across the street; the green light from its logo was glowing softly in the nighttime darkness, and one or two people could be seen moving about inside it.

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale, noting how intently he was staring.  He looked back and forth from the demon to the station, wondering if Crowley’s preternatural night vision allowed him to see something invisible to the angel.

In fact, Aziraphale _could_ see what had caught Crowley’s attention, but he had no reason to believe Crowley would be interested in it.  It would have seemed silly to assume _that_ would have been the thing to catch Crowley’s attention.  Aziraphale was thinking that Crowley was judging whether he could temp someone to drive away without paying for their gas, or to buy that packet of cigarettes, or to spit in the coffee machine or something, and not that he was looking at the James Bond promotional poster in the window.

Crowley had already seen _You Only Live Twice_ five times in theaters,** and since then he had gone back and marathoned _Dr. No, From Russia with Love, Goldfinger,_ and _Thunderball_ all back to back at least as often.    


* * *

**He _had_ only paid for his ticket once, though, in the name of causing trouble, so he did not feel guilty about it.

* * *

He had, of course, not told the angel about his appreciation (he refused to use words like _love_ or _fanboy_ about himself) for a certain spy thriller franchise, because Aziraphale would not only not share his enthusiasm, but also probably use it as a launchpad for a lengthy monologue about morality.

The reason why they were sitting there with the car idling in the middle of the road at night outside the petrol station was because they were giving away James Bond bullet-hole-in-the-windscreen transfers if you bought petrol, and Crowley wanted them very, very badly, but he also wanted Aziraphale not to know that he wanted them, but Aziraphale knew that Crowley never bought petrol.  The promotion ended soon, and it was already late, and he and Aziraphale were on their way to get blackout drunk, so this might be the only opportunity left to get them.

_Why not just miracle yourself some?_ said an irritating voice in his head.***

* * *

***This voice made an appearance from time to time and often offered him criticisms of how he lived his life.  He had taken to calling it his Inner Aziraphale, in honor of what an annoying prat his companion was capable of being.

* * *

_It wouldn’t be the same,_ he argued back.  _Those are...OFFICIAL James Bond Bullet Holes._ He did not want to admit to himself that he was trying to imitate James Bond.  If you had asked him, Crowley would have maintained that he was _cooler_ than James Bond.  Much cooler.  The car he drove was cooler than James Bond’s.  Crowley didn’t even _need_ a gun to kill someone or save a damsel.  He didn’t _need..._

He could make _real_ bullet holes if he wanted, and make them look _cooler..._

He didn’t _need..._

_“_ Is everything all right, dear?” said Aziraphale, with some concern.

He jerked the steering wheel hard, and the car swerved into the petrol station.  Aziraphale gave him a bewildered look as he killed the engine, stepped out of the car, and slammed the gas pump into the Bentley’s fuel intake.  He adjusted his sunglasses, crossed his arms, and looked defiantly into the night as the numbers on the pump ticked upwards.

“Are we, ah...” said Aziraphale, opening his door and leaning out.

“The tank is empty,” said Crowley, not looking at him.

Aziraphale got out and put his arms on the Bentley’s roof.  “Yes, but the tank is _always_ empty.  That’s never stopped you.”

He maintained an air of stony indifference, being careful not to look at the poster or Aziraphale.  “Do you want anything from inside?”

“You’re going to _pay_ for it?” said Aziraphale, utterly astonished, trying to understand that he would not have to try and talk Crowley into paying for his petty purchases as usual.

“More money in the oil company’s pockets,” he said, trying to sound cool, and knowing that he was failing.  “Encourage them to keep digging up the planet and spilling oil everywhere-”

The second the minimum purchase outlined in the fine print on the poster appeared on the pump, Crowley flicked it off and dashed inside.  The store was empty and the clerk was eying him nervously.  Crowley willed Aziraphale to stay outside and not ask questions.

He slammed some notes down and the kid behind the counter rushed to give him his change and mutter “Have a good night, sir.”

Crowley stood there for a moment.  “The...”

The kid looked at him fearfully and Crowley realized 1) He was dressed like a mafioso, 2) It was nearly midnight and they were alone in the store, and 3) his glasses had slid down the bridge of his nose and the kid was getting the full snake-eye stare, which was 4) extra annoyed at the moment.

Crowley held out his hand.  “The transfers.  I’m supposed to get the bullet hole transfers.”

The kid’s disbelieving gaze went from Crowley’s eyes to his hand to the poster on the window, and he said, “oh-oh, right! S-sorry!”

Crowley also bought a case of cheap beer and a carton of cigarettes, for a little extra immorality, and showed them to Aziraphale as he got back in the car, saying that he would be using them to tempt some teenagers later.  Aziraphale rolled his eyes and quietly took them off of him when he wasn’t paying attention later that evening.  The transfers remained in his jacket pocket until the next day, when he applied them to the Bentley’s rear window.  He looked behind him as he did so, subconsciously afraid of being caught****, but once they were on there he stared at them, suppressing a smile and picturing his Bentley in a frenetic car chase through a crowded street, knocking over fruit stands but conveniently missing pedestrians and somehow continuing to drive normally despite putting your head down to avoid getting shot as bullets blast out your windshields.  


* * *

****By _whom_ he wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling somebody in this blasted universe would have a problem with it.

* * *

He also had a tape of music that had been used in the James Bond movies and played it when Aziraphale wasn’t around, almost constantly, right up until it turned into a Queen album.


End file.
